


Some Kind of Special

by TeacupTempest



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Depression, Eating Disorders, M/M, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-01-02 22:45:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeacupTempest/pseuds/TeacupTempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis loves everyone.<br/>Harry's never been loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting anything on here, so please don't be too harsh:)

The first time Louis sees the boy, he's sitting on a dilapidated bench in front of the arts building.  

The first thing he noticed about him was the hair. Although windswept and tousled, presumedly by the chilly, wintry air (which, why was he just sitting there in that kind of weather? strange.), it was beautiful and bouncy. It seemed to be made of rich chocolate, and he pushed it back in an agitated manner. How anyone could be agitated with hair that beautiful, Louis had no idea. 

The second thing he noticed was the laundry basket sitting beside the boy. It was full, overly so, with bath towels and clothes alike, and cracking perilously at the sides from overuse. To be fair, Louis would have walked right by without a second thought had two things not happened at once.

First, what appeared to be a green piece of decorated cloth in the basket was caught in a gust of wind, and began to sail through the air like a ship on an invisible tide. 

The boy, of course, didn't see this because he had turned away from his laundry and toward Louis, and their eyes met and  _wow,_ but the boy was gorgeous. 

His eyes widened, as did the boy's, and then Louis took off running, earning a confused (and seemingly disappointed) look from the boy, his light green eyes blocking themselves off in a manner that he looked far too used to for Louis' taste. He payed it no mind for the moment, though, as he ran on his legs, still somehow toned and athletic despite nearly a year off the team,  sprinting toward the green cloth. He was halfway down the road before he caught it. He bent over and clutched at his knees for a breather, the cloth clutched in his left hand, pressed against his trackies.

When he straightened up, he looked down at the cloth, which appeared to be... a green scarf, printed with hipster eyeglasses. It was easily the most bizarre thing he could have imagined to be on the cloth, and he grinned and jogged back to the boy, who stared nervously as he approached. He collapsed onto the bench between the boy and his basket, crossed his legs, and stuck out his hand.

"Louis Tomlinson, resident scarf whisperer, at your service. And you are?" He said enthusiastically. Louis was many things, but he wasn't unfriendly. The boy tentatively reached out his hand and shook lightly with Louis. He used hardly any grip, and snatched away his hand as if it burned him, making Louis feel guilty. Although he was tactile, he had a younger sister who wasn't, and he hadn't meant to make Harry feel as if he was obligated to touch him.

Nevertheless, he wanted to know the boy, and pointing out his discomfort would have made him only more uncomfortable, so he barreled on in his high, pleasant voice. “Mate, I’ve gotta tell you, that has to be the single strangest scarf pattern I have ever seen. No offence, but what the hell do you wear it with?”

For the first time, the boy spoke up, his voice slow like honey despite the restless fidgeting of his (massive) hands. “ ’M Harry. And I could show you, if you’d like.”

Louis was confused, because what did the boy mean to do? Take his matching outfit out of his basket and show Louis? But he was interested so he simply nodded enthusiastically, drumming his fingers on his thigh. “Yeah, go on then. You’ve got my attention.”

The boy seemed genuinely surprised at that, but he took the scarf from Louis’ outstretched palm and immediately began folding it carefully, his hands now calm and sure. And then he wrapped it around his head and was suddenly even more gorgeous, his hair falling over it in casual disarray, and oh. Louis could definitely see how he pulled it off now.

“Ohhh,” he said, long and drawn out, “It’s the kind of thing that goes with anything you wear, innit?” Harry looked pleased, a dimple forming on his cheek, and Louis decided to please him even more by saying “either that, or you’re just the type who can pull off anything.”

Which was apparently the wrong thing to say if the way Harry’s face grew cold was any indication. His dimple was suddenly gone and he looked anything but amiable.

“Thanks for getting my scarf,” he said monotonously, walking around to the other side of Louis and picking up his basket with what seemed like too much effort for something that couldn’t possibly be that heavy. “I have to go.”

And Louis was confused and a little disappointed, but he had no reason or right to ask him to stay, so he simply watched the boy, Harry, walk in the direction of the dorms. Before he was out of earshot, Louis shouted “nice to meet you too, headscarf boy!” hoping for a laugh or at least some form of recognition.

Harry kept walking.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh i'm making this up as i go along, so i'll add in tags as i go.  
> Please comment if it's not asking too much.  
> I'd like to know what I'm doing wrong, or if I'm doing anything right with this.

Harry wishes that he'd be left in peace for a day. The constant aching in his bones, the gnawing in his stomach, the helpless nervousness that pervades his mind night and day; it's all driving him up the wall. He's tired of working at the coffee shop, although of course he loves it and is thankful for it and probably couldn't find a better job if he tried. It's just. Talking to so many people day in and day out, people who don't even  _see_ him, it's taking a toll on him that he never believed it would. 

He hates the superficiality of it, is what it boils down to. The way he can't form a bond with the regulars no matter how hard he tries, the way his boss still doesn't say his name right, the way he just  _gives_ as much as he can without actually putting himself out there. He pastes on a fake smile because it's all he can manage, but he wants them to believe it, wants to make them happy, and he feels they can see right through him anyway, but it's the best he can do and he's _sorry_.  He stutters over apologies when people get too impatient and tap their fingers on the counter, he tries to make his customer's days better and gives them free cookies and extra napkins and keeps the lobby clean and although he knows it's not a lot in the grand scheme of things, it's _something._

It's his only way of giving, because he feels that someone who enjoys life as little as he does shouldn't be taking up so much space and time and resources by staying alive. He feels selfish when he gets paid, like he doesn't deserve it although he's been working harder even than the manager. He just feels like an imposter in his own skin, and he wants to understand why.

He's mulling over these thoughts (as always) throughout the day, the bell over the door chiming every now and again at a customer and breaking him out of his reverie. 

When he's got about two hours of his shift left, a gorgeous boy walks in, all jet black hair and painted arms and no. _no no no._ Beautiful people are Harry's least favourite, he still can't understand how he felt so comfortable around that Louis yesterday, and he doesn't want to deal with this right now but Melinda's on her phone and Beth is smoking and he's a good worker goddamit, even if he's nothing else. He pulls down his sleeves a bit more to hide his chubby wrists and greets the boy with a borderline painful grin. He makes the vanilla bean frappuccino in a blur, not spilling a drop, and the boy pays up, distracted.

Of course something goes wrong, because with Harry something always goes wrong.

The boy uses change for part of it, and Harry doesn't mind, understands wanting to get rid of loose change, and thinks this is the perfect place to do so because he will patiently count it out and not mind a single bit. He actually feels a bit useful, he'll even let the person walk out the door before he's even counted it, and if it comes up uneven what's a few cents from his own frayed wallet? But the boy lays the coins out on the counter and Harry gets nervous because his fingernails are clipped down to the nub, he feels paranoid they'll get dirt underneath if he doesn't keep them like that. He tries to pick them up with trembling, blunt fingers, and the man on the other side of the counter chuckles at him. It's not a lot, but it increases the blood pounding in his ears because  _he's laughing_ and  _he's still looking_ and  _my shirt has ridden up, he can see my chubby arms_ and before Harry knows what he's done, he's knocked over the drink with his twitchy, idiotic hands.

It spills all down the front of the boy's shirt and drips onto his shoes and he's not laughing anymore.

After profuse apologies, a replacement drink with an offer of unlimited refills, and handfulls of napkins thrust at him, the man cleans himself up in the bathroom and settles himself in a corner booth facing away from Harry (in fact facing nothing but a wall) and doesn't make a fuss.

But Harry feels he's failed yet again, knows he's going to be fired, and starts hyperventilating in the storeroom when he can slip away. He wills his tears not to spill over because this is all he's good at and he's not even good at it anymore and he knows in a couple of weeks it won't seem that bad but right now the weight is  _crushing him_ and Melinda rolls her eyes when she finds him and tells him he can go early.

He's thankful, truly he is, that he's not fired. So he listens, but it turns out the silent emptiness of his flat was conducive to neither forgetting the day nor forgiving himself.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a long time, sorry. xx

_Now_ Louis had really screwed up.

He'd been partying. Louis is  _always_ partying, is the thing, and normally nothing bad comes of it. He might take a bloke home, fuck him, and shove him (as politely as is possible) out the door before the sun's even risen (only, of course, so he doesn't have to make twice the amount of eggs and toast in the morning. It's not like he has _commitment issues_ or anything) or he may just toss a few pints back with Niall, his Irish roomate who can drink him under the table.

Either way, he always wakes up the next morning  _with_ the worst hangover of his life (until the next one),  _with_ his memories intact (for the most part), and  _with_ clothing on (boxers at the very least), and absolutely, no exceptions,  _without_  someone else in his bed.

Well, not this morning (except the hangover, jesus _fucking_ christ).

No, sirree.  _This_ morning, Louis doesn't even have to open his eyes to feel the presence beside him, the unmistakable warmth of a body barely six inches away from his. Then he hears the breathing and oh, god, he doesn't know how to kick someone out  _sober._ It's extremely simple when he's drunk. He just has to finish up his business, give 'em a pat on the ass and promise to call, and send them on their merry way with a sore ass and a head full of lies.

He can't do that sober. Especially when he really does open his eyes to look at the guy next to him, only to see a naked, toned back and a mop of curly hair, the guy's face turned the other way. His feet go off the edge of the tiny bed, and only his bare bottom is covered by the comforter. This guy looks strangely familiar, actually... _  
_

Shit.

_Shit._

It's that guy, the one with the laundry. Harry, was it? 

"Harry," he tries, poking the mammoth's shoulder. He doesn't so much as twitch.

He tries again, this time a little louder. Still no dice. This guy could sleep through a tornado apparently, which is... not so fortunate for Louis, really.

"Harry!," he finally booms, because maybe he does have a bit of a temper but nobody's perfect, right?

The guy rolls over, looking pissed. And also... a little on the pimply side. And did he get a new nose?

"The fuck?" he grumbles, somehow managing to sound nasal just in those two words. "My names not fucking Harry, Brett...It's...fucking Brett. I'm going back to sleep, dick." And he's out like a light. Great.

 

 

 


End file.
